


Howling

by were_lemur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2016, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6807478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_lemur/pseuds/were_lemur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All of this unresolved sexual tension.  It might make our working relationship easier if we just, I dunno -- resolve it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howling

Crowley watches as Dean throws jeans, t-shirts, flannel into a duffel. "You know, I could buy you some new clothes. Nicer clothes." He imagines Dean in a bespoke suit tailored perfectly to show off the width of his shoulders, the curve of his ass.

"So this is how it starts." Dean grins at him. "I love you, you're perfect, now change."

Crowley spreads his hands. "It was just a suggestion."

Dean zips up the bag, but rather than pick it up he bends to scrawl something on a scrap of paper.

"Grocery list?" 

"A note for Sam."

Crowley glances at the note. "You really think that's going to work?"

"Worth a try."

"If there's nothing else, let's get out of here before he realizes I'm not going to answer his summons. There's no need for an awkward scene when he realizes you're leaving him for me."

Dean grabs the keys to his Impala.

"Demons," Crowley reminds him. "We don't need a car."

"It's mine," Dean growls. "I'm not leaving it."

"Come on, then."

But then Dean catches sight of himself in the mirror. He leans closer, studying himself for a long time. Clicks his eyes from black to green, and back again. Finally he smiles, checking himself out from all the angles. 

"If you're finished admiring yourself -- "

"Just trying to remember the last time I didn't feel like putting a bullet in the guy looking back at me."

The admission, and the very casualness of it, makes Crowley do a double-take. He's not sure what he'd been expecting this new Dean to be. But he's going to enjoy finding out.

He follows Dean down to the garage, where the Impala sits, gleaming as black as Dean's eyes. The rear door is still open; Sam hadn't bothered closing it when he'd dragged out Dean's still-oozing corpse.

Crowley slides into the passenger's seat. "House rules," Dean says. "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

"Did he?"

"Sam? Never." He turns the key, and the Impala rumbled to life. "Always complaining, asking me to turn it down, glaring at me when I sang along."

"Go ahead," Crowley says. "Crank it up to eleven."

"Like I need your permission."

They pull out into the night, AC/DC's "Back In Black" blasting so loud it's a wonder Sam doesn't hear it from where he's keeping his vigil.

*

"We ought to celebrate your resurrection in style," Crowley says, after they've been driving a while. "Swanky hotel, classy escorts. How long has it been since you got laid?"

"Too damn long."

He pulls out his phone and makes a show of tapping it, as if he didn't have all of this arranged before he came to the bunker. "Head for Saint Louis."

It's after four by the time they reach the hotel. Crowley gets out at the front and checks them in, then comes back down to where Dean has pulled open his duffel.

"Come on, Princess," Crowley says.

"I think that walking through the hotel lobby in bloody clothes would be the wrong kind of attention."

"You're still thinking like a human." A thought later, and they're in the darkened hotel room. He flips the switch, and Dean lets out a low whistle.

"This'll definitely impress the ladies," he says. He pushes the curtains open, and looks down onto the dark, gleaming bulk of the Mississippi river. Reflected in the glass, his expression is unreadable.

After a long moment, he turns away from the view. "I need a shower."

Crowley doesn't argue. He checks his phone, _boring, boring, pointless, he's supposed to have people for this_ and then Dean emerges, wrapped in a towel, and for a moment, all Crowley can do is stare.

"Silly me," Dean says. "I forgot to grab a change of clothes." But he's got a big grin on his face, and he's not heading for the duffel bag of questionable sartorial choices.

Crowley makes a show of turning away. "Whenever you're ready, Squirrel."

"You know, I was thinking. All of this unresolved sexual tension. It might make our working relationship easier if we just, I dunno --" he shrugs, and lets the towel drop, and for a moment, Crowley loses all pretense of disinterest. "Resolve it?"

"Right, then," Crowley says. "Assume the position."

"Oh, no." Dean's chuckle is low and the sound seems to be directly connected to Crowley's groin. "The old me, sure. Hell, the old me even kinda _liked_ being bossed around." He walks up to Crowley, and Crowley takes a step back, and then another, and he's against the wall, and Dean grins down at him, and it occurs to Crowley that Dean can easily overpower him. His treasonous mind is already imagining it; Dean throwing him down, ripping his clothes off, _taking_ what he wants. 

He's hard just thinking about it.

"I'm the King of Hell." The protest sounds thin in his own ears. "I don't just _bend over_."

"Well, that's too bad." Dean's eyes have gone all-black again, and he's leaning with his elbows to the wall, trapping Crowley, smirking. "I could've fucked you through the mattress and left you too limp to move." He steps back. "Instead, I'll just have to go out and find someone else."

"You're not going to -- "

"What, throw you down on the bed and ravish you against your will?" Dean laughs. "Sorry, Crowley. You don't get off that easily. In either sense of the word."

So he's going to spend a night of frustration while Dean bloody Winchester gives some empty-headed bit of stuff what should be his by right? That's monstrous, that's unfair, that's outrageous.

And really, nobody in Hell has to know. "Fine."

"Fine what?"

"You know what!" For a moment, he thinks that Dean is going to make him _say_ it, make him beg. But then Dean has him against the wall again, his mouth is on Crowley's, his tongue thrusting inside, all heat and wet and demand.

Then it's gone; Dean pulls back and grabs the front of Crowley's shirt and yanks it open, popping buttons, and Crowley is about to protest on his tailor's behalf, but Dean is pushing his shirt and his jacket off his shoulders and it's too late anyway. Dean grabs him by the tie and uses it to drag him to the bed. He throws back the covers and shoves Crowley down. Crowley kicks off his shoes, just in time, because Dean yanks down his trousers and his underwear in one go. He throws the discarded wad of fabric off the edge of the bed. "Lube?"

That's more consideration than Crowley was expecting, and he's more than happy to manifest a bottle. Dean squirts some on his fingers and gets down to business.

Crowley expects the preparations to be rough, perfunctory, just enough to get inside without damaging the meat. But instead, Dean slows his pace, giving Crowley time to adjust. Then he does something with his fingers, and Crowley lets out a yelp.

"Good noise or bad noise?" Dean asks.

"Good noise, I think?" Everything is tangled up inside; it doesn't quite hurt, but it's not exactly comfortable.

Dean changes the angle of his fingers, presses again, gently. "Better?"

Crowley feels his eyes roll back, but he manages to nod. He spreads his legs wider, he's absolutely _debauched,_ but Dean Winchester is finger-fucking him nice and slow and it's everything he never knew he wanted.

Dean's fingers stop. "Slow down there, cowboy. You don't want to get ahead of things."

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

Dean pulls his fingers out, and Crowley whimpers. Whimpers! He should be asserting himself right now, but all he wants is for Dean to do _that_ again.

"Condom?" Dean asks.

"Demon," Crowley snaps. "Both of us. Can't pick up any stray diseases."

Dean looks at him for a moment, as if he'd never considered that, then nods. He strokes himself a couple of times, getting himself lubed up, then shifts to press the head of his cock against Crowley's opening. "This may pinch a bit. Shouldn't actually hurt, though."

"Promises, promises."

The first thrust is slow. By the time Dean is three-quarters inside, Crowley is tired of waiting; he wraps his legs around Dean's waist and takes the full length of him.

"Oh, wow," Dean breathes into his shoulder.

"Never ridden bareback before, Squirrel?" Although he's definitely going to have to rethink that nickname now.

"Never."

"Not even during your year off with what's-her-name?"

Dean pulls back enough to look down at him. "I should feel sore about what you did to her," he says, and he sounds a bit puzzled that he doesn't.

"Bygones," Crowley says.

"Yeah," Dean says, then pulls out almost all the way, and for a moment Crowley thinks maybe he isn't as over it as he should be, but then he thrusts in again, studying Crowley's face. He pushes his arms out straight, tries again from a different angle, and this time feels even better. Dean grins down at him, and thrusts in again, and pauses, and again, and pauses, like the cruel, black-eyed son-of-a-bitch Crowley always knew was there deep inside.

"Quit messing about and _fuck me_!" Crowley roars.

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

The next thrust is enough to shove Crowley back, and the one after that has him scrunched against the pillow. After that, he stops noticing anything other than how Dean's cock feels inside him.

It's too much, but it's not quite enough, and he'll just stay here forever except he'll go insane if this keeps up, and then Dean's hand closes on his cock, stroking in time with the thrusts, and all it takes is three to push him over the edge. Every muscle in his body clenches. Dean grunts, a brutal, animal sound, and his last thrust is enough to shove Crowley against the headboard.

For a moment, they hold the tableau: Crowley staring up, Dean looming over, both of them gasping for breath. But then the strength seems to go out of Dean. He sags, rolling his weight so that he settles next to Crowley instead of landing on top of him.

"Gonna need another shower," Dean says. But instead of getting up, he drapes a proprietary arm across Crowley's waist. Frowns when he encounters stickiness, then undoes Crowley's tie and uses it to wipe the mess away.

"Excuse you," Crowley says, but there's no heat to it. Dean smirks at him, and pitches the sullied wad of fabric against the far wall.

Crowley doesn't technically need to sleep. Nevertheless, a post-coital nap sounds like a very good idea right now.


End file.
